


multitudes

by bibliocratic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Developing Relationship, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliocratic/pseuds/bibliocratic
Summary: Tim loves Sasha, who adores Martin, who’s seeing Tim, who is fond of Jon, who is slowly falling for two people at once.Or: The Archive navigate a naturally developing polycule.Chapter 5: tim & jonChapter 6: jon/martin
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood / Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 50
Kudos: 150





	1. tim and sasha

**Author's Note:**

> Absolute minimal plot from the get-go here lads, you've been warned. xD

He had wanted to tell her she looked like a queen, a piratical buccaneer, a goddamn main-stage rock star, but his tongue had been tacky with cocktails and the flat plane of their table was bobbing like driftwood, and there had been a silence that was saying too much between them. And he’d leaned in, forgetting caution and putting his elbow in a circular condensation spill, and she’d cupped her palm at the back of his neck to angle the kiss, and the floor under his drink-sticky shoes had been sea-rocked as he grasped her nearer like making landfall. The taxi ride had felt too long, and she’d giggle-breathed against his mouth as she pushed her hand under his shirt to anchor her fingers around the dip between hip and waist, and she’s taller than him even sat down, and he thinks he might have made a joke about needing a stepladder so he doesn’t get neckache, and she’d laughed and snorted and that had detonated another laugh in her like a domino effect, and her mouth was too far away from his and he’d learned what her lips tasted like when she smiled.

She’d talked too fast the next morning as she picked her bra up from his bedroom floor. Her pixie bob up-scrubbed by sleep, and she’d winced with the hangover he could feel starting up construction at the front of his brain. He’d stumbled over asking her if she wanted breakfast, but he realised he didn’t have anything, that he’d been meaning to do a big shop that weekend, and she was already making her excuses to leave anyway, conjuring some weak-hearted, throw-out comment about seeing him at work. He didn’t say anything to stop her leaving.

When she left, he put his head in his hands, and knew he’d fucked it up.

Later. When they’ve scaled their past and navigated the rocks they’d thrown to disturb seas that had been calmer to reach in-jokes and camaraderie, when Tim thinks he might be able to make himself forget the way she’d bled hot through her skin and sighed against his shoulder if he tries hard enough. Later, one evening, nothing special, but they’re both leaving at the same time, Jon’s office light still on, Martin having left an hour earlier, and she is talking with a puffed-up annoyance about some podcast she’s clearly hate-listened to, despising every episode but powering through just so she has enough to rant about to him, and he feels the words rush out of him like a sputtering tap as he asks her out on a date.

And she’s stopped talking, and she’s looking at him, and he can’t decipher her expression, and he has an out-of-body realisation that he’s babbling, and all his smooth talk has stalled into stuttering car-starts as he – _idiot, bloody idiot_ – goes on about last time, and what had happened, and how awkward it had been, and he can’t stop his treacherous tongue from airing his secrets to the street as he tells her it had meant something, to him. That he’d, he’d get it if she wanted him to leave it, but he’d hoped – well, he’d hoped it might mean something to her too.

She’s paused, and tugs at the hem of her coat, and his stomach has pooled cavernous at the base of his chest and she still looks like a goddamn rock star even in work clothes, tired Friday evening eyes and liner that’s smudged over the day.

She says mock-seriously, faux casual for all the tamped down hopefulness he can hear lining her words: “ _One_ date then.”

A queen. A piratical rock star. Her hair’s grown out from her bob and it gets into his face, spread out like she’s sinking when she sleeps. She likes pressing a kiss in lipstick at the top of his spine like a signature and then covering it with his shirt before they leave the house when she stays at his. He likes seeing her in her reading glasses as she sits with her back against the headboard, her legs angled over his and always running warm.

She leaves hair clips and lip balm and toothpaste flecks all over his bathroom sink, and he feels _lucky, lucky, lucky_ whenever she smiles at him.


	2. martin and sasha

This time round, it's Martin's turn to open his wallet, wincing at the price. They alternate who shoulders this particular financial blow – one of them forks out for the tickets, which are extortionate in the way any cinema trip in London is, and the other buys drinks or coffees or sandwiches after. Sasha always brings a packet of tissues in case it’s a weepy, and Martin’s always got an umbrella in case they get out and it’s started raining.

On their trips, it's only ever the two of them. Tim will only venture near a cinema to see whatever popcorn action flick he's seen advertised on the side of a bus. Martin will watch those, in fairness, if Sasha badgers him enough, but only begrudgingly, with a huff at every outlandish explosion or badass quip, trying and failing not to be a little bit of a film snob about it. Jon, for his part, has only ever said yes to an outing once, and he had sat enraptured and bent forward in the glowing light of a documentary about Macedonian beekeeping. At intervals, Martin and Sasha had glanced over at him with an expression steeped in fondness before returning to the film.

Afterwards, because it's usually a matinee screening, they'll secrete themselves somewhere within the in-cinema café, elbows on the table and playfully dissect the movie in between bites of an overpriced panini. Martin favours symbolic films, whimsical scores at odds with the unfolding drama, full of dream sequences and stunning cinematography and uncertain endings. Sasha prefers social realism, naturalistic or period soundtracks, emotional acting and gritty commentaries and concrete resolutions.

Their tastes do find overlap. They'd both been looking forward to this particular film for weeks, pre-booked their tickets so they could have a chance at some semi-decent seats. Martin had sent Sasha screenshots of rave reviews from Sundance and Canne and the film festival circuit, proclaiming it visionary, a once-in-a-generation picture, both subversive and sublime. Sasha had taken a selfie with the eye-catching poster outside the Curzon in Mayfair and captioned it 'SOON'.

Which is why, as they came out of the auditorium, the credits rolling and the music still straining with a melancholy violin refrain, Martin was already venting, mid-bitch about motivation and characterisation and _that ending_ , Sasha interrupting in agreement with her own heated, infuriated additions, heading down the stairs to the ground floor café sounding like two enraged magpies – _and then, that bit when he just shot her? / Exactly, what was that! And the whole lone-wolf macho bollocks, where did that come from! / Exactly, like what was even the_ point! Settling in the cinema café, Sasha bought them both two bottles of beer and overpriced cake slices and they took great delight stewing in calories and alcohol as they happily ripped the film to shreds.

They conclude the night _many_ hours later. Martin's wobbling as they stand at the bus stop, squinting at the sun-faded timetable protected by a scratched and graffitied plastic covering. Sasha's gone sleepy in the cool of the dawn, leaning against his back to stop the world helter-skeltering behind her eyes as Martin peers at the information blurring in front of him.

“Sash, wu'v misst it,” he slurs. “'s'.... fuckit.....went like, 'n'our ago.”

“S'fine,” she burbles against his back. “I-I'll walk, s'cool.”

“Y' live in, in fuckin' Haringey, 's....'s miles away,” Martin says, and he's got a crease above his eyebrows and he's clearly thinking hard because he spins round and holds them both up by grasping her arms and says: “And my flat's.... 's worm-food, innit. So. Right. Up. Tim's... Tim's, what, twen'y minutes away, summin like that?”

It is an abominable hour to be calling on someone. Tim will most definitely be in bed, asleep because one or both of them text him to say they’d be out till the all-hours, so he’s probably taken advantage of the extra space and starfished on the bed. Neither Sasha nor Martin have a key, so he'll be rough-eyed and sore about the disturbance, and the bed’s not really big enough for three despite Tim’s insistence that it definitely is, so one of them will end up on his shitty couch with all its springs fucked. But she is tired and staggering and being drunk has lost its sheen and she just wants to go to sleep.

Martin is gesturing, turning around and indicating that she should jump on his back. It is not her proudest moment. She clambers up like a graceless forest animal, digging her shoes into the fleshy sides of his torso. With a good bit of swearing and manoeuvring and a sketchy moment where Martin nearly loses his balance and topples the both of them, finally she is seated comfortably against his back, arms held like jumper sleeves around his neck.

“Hm, love you Marto,” she sighs into his hair as he sets off, carrying her easily.

After a minute, she gets a self-conscious little 'you too, Sash' and she falls asleep against his hoodie.


	3. tim and martin

They part ways at St Pancras. Tim gives Martin a chicken-peck kiss on the cheek, consciously more sedate than their usual farewells, when Tim will lean into the dramatic to see Martin flush and bluster his insincere complaints.

He tells him, lightly _I’ll catch up with you later yeah?_ and doesn’t let it become a question but settle in as a promise. He gives a little wave of his mobile as if to demonstrate that if Martin needs him, he’ll come.

Martin nods, smiles distracted. That’s the form his smiles often take, like they’re sailboats pushing through choppy waters. His eyes are already wandering to his watch, although he’s got plenty of time. Then he heads off up Euston Road, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, slouching back into his poor-postured hunch.

Tim goes off the opposite way, meandering anchorless through the flow of people in no particular direction. He’s developed his own patterns for days like today. He stops at a new café that he’s certain wasn’t there two weeks ago, and orders an overpriced mocha that cools too quickly and is overly grainy when he gets to the bottom. Sitting up on a wobbly stool and propping his elbows against a wooden bar that looks out onto the tumult of the street, he reads the book he brought, whiling away about forty minutes with an overwrought crime thriller.

(“ _It’s the brother.” Martin had said, his eyes still closed against the encroachment of morning as Tim had recounted the latest plot twist to him._

_“Nah, it’s the detective. The shady one. I’m sure of it.”_

_“The detective probably didn’t help, but I reckon she more just turned a blind eye to it. The real killer’s the brother.”_

_“How much d’you want to bet?”_

_“Heh. I didn’t realise you were made of money.”_

_“You mean our untold riches from working in spooky admin?”_

_Martin’s face relaxes into its smile. It ceaselessly delights Tim to see, and he leans in and over the rise of Martin’s chest, presses a kiss at the fold of his mouth to hear Martin hum dozily._

_“I’ll get you a takeaway or something.”_

_“What luxury. Alright then.”)_

He checks his phone for the time, but Martin won’t be finished yet. He dog-ears the page with the increasing certainty that he’s going to owe Martin a takeaway dinner for two with the way the plot’s going, and continues on his amble.

The weather’s given up on scattered showers to break into cautious sunshine. He’s a chronic window shopper, and as he goes, he takes photos on his phone of some more ostentatious jackets with show-off, flashy colours and sends them to Sasha. It’s the annual Institute fundraiser in less than a month, and Tim has big plans for his outfit, which every year manages to be a flagrant fashion statement that is a heady combination of eye-catching and borderline obnoxious. Three years in a row, he’s managed to win a dry quip and a desultory sigh from Elias, but this year’s big achievement would be swaying Martin into coming, something he has avoided every year since before even Tim started working there.

With a rapid-fire chatter of pings, Sasha dismisses three of his flashier choices. After a few seconds of waiting, she points out that the deep blue jacket might be a good shout for Martin. Tim makes a mental note to swing back to the shop later in the week with the man himself.

He buys some household necessities – bin bags, a bottle of hand soap – and stops at a pub that’s not too crushed with tourists. He pops a quid in the fruit machine in the corner and wins a grand total of sod all, as per usual, so he gets a lager top and props up the mostly empty bar, reading the Metro he took from the Tube. Every so often, he flicks his eyes to his phone.

It’s been about two hours when Tim walks to where he knows Martin will be holed up. The café at the front entrance to the British Library is never empty, but it’s sparingly dotted with patrons, and Martin’s been able to take up one of the round white tables with the wonky legs near the windows.

Tim sees what he expects to, what he’s come to learn from this tradition; Martin, headphones in, the music overloud and heavy with bass. There’s the streaked remains of a hot chocolate in a tall glass, a crumb-flecked plate with half a Bakewell unfinished. He’s staring down at his hands, frowning, picking at the scruffy remains of his nails.

“All ok?” Tim asks. He makes sure to wave in Martin’s line of sight.

Martin looks up as he tugs out his headphones and shoves them into his pocket. Tim watches him push a greeting smile onto his face. Tim has learned Martin has a lot of faces he can form like shield-walls, defensive carapaces of anxious pretence he’s spent his whole life hammering out. But today must have touched on that, for Martin after a moment drops the foundation of his expression into an honest, more hard-won welcome that’s still slightly wrinkled with his thoughts.

His hair’s always a bit of a mess after he comes from talking to Leanne. He tugs at it and rakes his fingers through when he’s trying to muddle the words out. Tim leans in on his way to sitting down and pats down the worst of the cowlicks.

“Yeah,” Martin says. He breathes out and repeats himself. “Yeah. It was… it was useful.”

“That’s good to hear,” Tim says, and hopes his expression manages to tell Martin how proud Tim is of him.

“I left you some,” Martin says, gesturing at the unfinished Bakewell.

“My hero,” Tim beams, and picks up the whole thing and drops it into his mouth, beaming with a crumbly satisfaction when Martin goes ‘there’s a _fork,_ Tim,’ and it breaks up the clouds on his face.

“We head off then? Do we need anything else while we’re out?”

“You get bin bags?”

“Yep.”

“We’re running out of soap for the bathroom, did you…?”

“Done and _done._ ”

“And we’re out of orange juice, did you remember that?”

“I…”

Tim stops, because he’s sure the carton’s still half full. He drank some straight out of the fridge this morning, and both Sasha and Martin had simultaneously lectured him on using a glass.

Martin’s smirk peeks out of its warren.

“You would _lie_? To _me?_ ” Tim dramatically holds his hand over his heart, and it wrings a chuckle out of Martin as they stand to leave.

Martin reaches for his hand as they head out. There’s no initial knocking of his knuckles against Tim to gauge how he might go about it, no tentatively brushing fingers to test the waters. He threads their fingers together quickly, like he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t do it immediately, and goes a self-conscious red. It’s a pleasant surprise. Tim clenches his fingers in a supportive gesture, and gets a delayed response. Martin doesn’t often initiate, and definitely not in public.

“We… um. We talked about you. Me and Leanne,” Martin stumbles over his words after a while.

“Oh? I thought I could feel my ears burning.”

Martin doesn’t continue the thought, but he looks down at where they’re joined, overly aware of the contact.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” he says eventually. “To the party. Anything smart, you know, it doesn’t seem to be really a jeans and t-shirt sort of occasion.”

“You’re going to come?” Tim tries and fails to keep the smile off his face.

“It… it might not be so bad. With you and Sash there.”

“Martin,” Tim says with the utmost seriousness. “No pressure but me and Sash have been mentally trying to plan you an outfit for _weeks._ Can I…? Can we take a detour? There’s a jacket I really want to show you. If you don’t like it, no harm no foul, but it will look _gorgeous_ on you, I know it.”

Martin looks like he’s automatically going to say no, and Tim gets it. Martin’s back goes up when all the attention is on him, like he’s under a spotlight, and the jacket is a bit more eye-catching than he’d usually go for.

But he seems to breathe through the refusal and sits with the idea before:

“Yeah. Ok. I’ll take a look.”

“You can help me with my jacket as well,” Tim says. “Sasha keeps doubting my fashion choice.”

“She texted me your suggestions earlier,” Martin replies. “I’d doubt it too. Peach? Seriously.”

“Ooh, someone’s catty. Oh! Almost forgot. We’re probably going to have an Indian tonight, cool with you?”

“Um… yeah, sure – why?... Oh! It was the brother?”

“Almost inevitable at this point.”

“Knew it.”

Martin gives a smug little grin, and Tim’s heart does a funny stumble in his chest.

Their hands stay connected all the way to the shop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was entirely born out of the fact that I think that Tim and Martin would both be really good for each other emotionally, and would be entirely supportive in giving each other the space they both need to work through their own issues.


	4. jon and sasha

“Blue,” Jon declares triumphantly.

He sets his incomplete circle of pie pieces down harder than necessary in his eagerness. The TV remote nearby gives a plasticky rattle.

Sasha leans forward from where she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, the space cleared where the bandy-legged coffee table usually sits to accommodate the board. She wobbles like a bowling pin as her fingers strain and scrabble before her long arms reach, and she grasps another card from the box, recovering her balance to rock back to seated.

They don’t get to play this often. Neither Tim nor Martin will play with them; apparently, they’ve been accused of getting too competitive on occasion. But Tim’s out with some uni mates, probably winding down a pub crawl which has ended two bars in because they’re all skint and there’s no point in moving once you’ve snagged good seats somewhere growing crowded. Martin had joined the two of them for a bit earlier when they were channel-hopping between _Gogglebox_ and a Marvel film on Film 4, but he’d gone to bed early, planning on taking an early train to Devon in the morning. Now, here the two of them were, both on five pieces out of six with one more to go, and Sasha refuses to be beaten.

She takes another sip from an overloaded gin and tonic and reads out the trivia question on the card.

“What is the capital of Switzerland?”

“Aha!” Jon’s face is flushed and smug. “Geneva.”

He goes to take a victory swig of the beer that’s surely gone room temperature in the time he’s been nursing it and reaches out to claim his final piece.

“Nope!” Sasha makes certain to pop the ‘p’, knocking his hand away and grinning as she sing-songs. “My go!”

“What, no! It’s Geneva. The capital city of Switzerland.”

“It’s not.”

“Course it is!”

“Better luck next time, Jonny boy!” Sasha crows, and casts the die in her hand. The number’s too high to land on the square she wants, and she curses, but she’s distracted by Jon, who is looking grumpy and argumentative and going for his phone. She grabs it away.

“Look, let me look it up,” he protests, and he’s moving closer, shuffling nearer to her. His jaw set in that way he gets when he’s sure he’s absolutely right.

He tries to take his phone back, but she holds it up high and out of his reach.

“That’s cheating, we said no phones.” Jon lunges again and he almost knocks her back. “You’re a complete cheat! Jon!”

Jon leans in as though to kiss her, but it’s an obvious distraction ploy, and she pushes his mouth away with a giggle, and shoves the phone into her pocket. Jon attempts to retrieve it, and she shrieks and flails back, intensely ticklish which he _knows_ , the arse, and he relents when she kicks at him and says “Would you – stop it! We’ll wake Martin! Shhh, we’ll wake him!”

Jon huffs, but his petulance is short lived as he leans back next to her, angled up by his elbows, the fight drained out of him like water through a sieve. He takes another sour-faced sip.

“What was it then?”

“Huh?”

“ _Sasha._ ”

“Bern.”

“What?”

“The capital of Switzerland. It’s Bern, not Geneva.”

“Huh,” Jon says, sounding surprised, and she can almost hear the sound of him filing the fact away in his brain.

Sasha gestures with a lazy hand to the board and pieces she upended with her kicking.

“You want to keep playing?”

“I think we can safely say you won,” Jon replies, though he doesn’t sound like he minds so much any more. He moves himself again, because he’s even more fidgety with a drink in him, and reads out the first card he manages to find.

“What is the largest internal organ of the body?” he asks her.

“Thought we were finished?” she replies, but still, she makes a humming noise. “Liver?”

“Bingo.”

She takes a card from the box offered to her.

“How many noses does a slug have?”

It’s no longer competitive. They trade questions and answers idly, flicking through to find random cards, questions that pique their interest, that they think will stir the slow-moving waters of their late night conversation. Jon leaning at her side, partially against her like a tree gradually bending in the breeze, is a straight line of indolent heat. Sasha gets to the bottom of the glass of paint stripper she’s been suffering through – it was Martin’s, which he didn’t finish before he retired, and he always goes too heavy on the sprits for her taste whenever he makes them.

“Ok. Most dangerous animal in the UK?” she asks.

“Based on what?”

“Fatalities.”

“Hmm. Ok. Um… stags? We don’t have any wild boars anymore, do we, and there’s not exactly any wolves roaming the headlands…. Soooo, yes. Stags.”

“Cows.”

“ _N_ o.”

Sasha’s grabbed her phone and is checking anyway.

“Apparently so. 2015 survey, seventy odd people over fifteen years.”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“It’s not exactly the box jellyfish, is it?”

Sasha hums in agreement.

“I think there’s some cursed cow skin in Archive Storage.”

“Oh?”

“Can’t remember what it does exactly.”

“One would hope it doesn’t turn you into a cow.”

“Oh, one would, would one?” Sasha mimics Jon’s accent, giving it a regal snobbery, and he shoves at her shoulder with his.

“Here,” he says, passing over his can. “Help me finish this?”

“Not a fan?”

“It’s one of Tim’s IPAs from the fridge. I’m not convinced.”

Sasha dutifully takes a swig and finds it a marked improvement on what she’s been working her way through.

“You think there’s any drinking songs about IPAs?” she asks.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve got… um _Mistletoe and Wine,_ and _Red, Red Wine,_ and they’re about, er….”

“Methylated spirits.”

“ _Wine,_ smartarse.”

Jon makes a thoughtful sound.

“ _Whiskey in the Jar,_ ” he responds after a minute.

“Good one. I’m pretty sure… isn’t there a Kiss song about gin?”

“ _Cold Gin._ ”

“That’s the one. Oh! I know!” Sasha’s moving then, her limbs more sluggish than they were before, tugging her headphones out of her pocket and untangling them. “There’s that – er, Finnish band – ah, Christ, what are they called – and they’ve got, like, _heaps_ of songs named after alcohol.”

That rabbit hole of questioning leads down into music for a while, and they sit with their heads touching so they can both use the headphones, listening to snippets of drinking songs.

“Give this one a listen,” Sasha says.

“What is it?”

“Just listen, would you?”

Jon, if anything, gets even more intense when he’s got drink in him, so he listens through the song with a furrowed brow.

“it’s… different.”

“It’s called math rock. Martin put me onto it. It’s all about like time signatures or something.”

Jon snorts and says, “That sounds exactly like something Martin would listen to” (and _oh,_ she thinks with mild but not revelatory surprise at the way Jon has said that like an endearment, and looking at Jon’s face, she wonders if he’s realised it yet himself), before he’s heavy-handedly typing something into the search bar, backspacing repeated to correct the errors made by his imprecise fingers before he presses play.

She winces at the volume as the music starts aggressively loud.

“What is _this_?”

“Pirate metal.”

“No _way._ ”

“Uh-huh.”

She watches him, his head nodding off-tempo to the raucous beat, and she mimics the motion, feeling him slide down further against her, his head cushioned against her shoulder.

“Neat.”


	5. tim and jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this chapter involves a large element of conversational misunderstanding, I've detailed the content below in case anyone wants to be prepared.

“Would you hurry up?” Jon hisses at him, his eyes scattering skittishly to dart and interrogate every night-echoed noise. His expression is bow-strung and embroiled in a hundred outcomes where they get caught, and he furiously shakes his head when Tim indicates through rough and basic mime the next stage of this impeccably-organised plan. There is a flurry of disagreement about who gets to take the starring role in the next part, performed entirely through gestures and whispers before Jon, snapping a ‘fine, _fine_ ’, takes the leg-up Tim’s offering. There’s a medley of ‘shit’ and ‘woahwoahwoah’ as both of them adjust to balance and Jon clings to the wall for a moment, psyching himself up prior to shimmying his lanky body worm-like through the open letterbox-shaped window.

There is a clattering, a worrying thump. Tim winces, and cautiously calls out “Boss?” as loud as he dares.

He gets a seething cats-hiss of “Keep it _down_!” so he presumes Jon’s not too badly damaged.

A minute or so later, Jon is opening the lock from the inside to let Tim into the building. His jumper is rumpled, his hair and face caked with dust like a talc bottle’s gone off in his face.

“Bit grubby there,” Tim grins. Jon gives him a look that promises untold violence and an unmarked grave if he doesn’t behave himself. Tim mimes zipping his lips shut before passing Jon the spare torch.

Despite Jon’s protestations, this outing was his idea. The security tapes and records are in here somewhere, the owner was cagey enough that it’s practically a given, and if they can use them to prove a case of a possible active entity, well, a little sneaking around can’t hurt. Jon had avoided calling it exactly what it was (‘ _It’s just some looking around’ / ‘It’s trespassing, boss’ / ‘It’s harmless, we’ll be in and out, we’re not really stealing anything valuable’ / ‘It’s breaking and entering and trespassing on private property_ ’) so much so that Tim had laughed, declared it a case of Schrödinger’s illegal and told Jon he’d buy them both some gloves for their night-time ‘looking around’.

Moving further into the property, the flashlights they’ve brought arc with echoes of illumination a split second slow, like the dragging light of a Bonfire sparkler, eventually casting over to a metallic-walled office tucked off to the side. This place looks like a pre-fab, out on an industrial estate somewhere, and from contents inside, has spent the last few years being a motorcycle showroom. Gleaming structures are displayed proudly and buffed to shining in lines, the large open-plan room interspersed with load-bearing pillars. Off near the end, there’s the accessories part of the space, with metal shelving and stands and racks where helmets and gloves and leathers are clustered.

The office is locked. Jon wordlessly pushes the torch over to Tim, who holds both it and his own pointed at the lock, and pulls out a black rectangular carry case from the over-the-shoulder bag he's brought. Kneeling down, he unzips it with a quiet tug, revealing its contents as an honest-to-god lockpicking kit.

“Are you serious?” Tim expels in a high breath, his mouth curved high in delight.

“Childhood hobby,” is the only thing Jon will say, and any further questions are refuted with a ‘I am _trying_ to concentrate’ or a stone-wall silence. Tim files all a hundred and one of his follow-up questions for a later time. He’s half tempted to snap a photo for Sasha, but then remembers with a guilty jolt that that would probably be a bad idea if anyone catches them.

The office is no better than their archives, and Jon is visibly disappointed at the lack of an easy job. Stowing away his kit back into his bag, they settle into a routine after a few muttered back-and-forth suggestions. Tim takes the paper-drowned desk, the stuffed layers of the in-tray and the desk drawers, while Jon braves the rattling filing cabinets taller than he is.

For the most part, they work in silence, which means it’s a surprise when, after a few moments rifling, Jon says in a painfully faux-casual way:

“So. You and um. You and Martin.”

“Hmm?” Tim replies. His eyes flick over several receipts, a few carbon-copies of CBT papers and full licenses. He tries to separate some, only to find that they’ve started to stick together, and he sighs with irritation.

Jon remains quiet. Tim turns to look at him, and he’s still got his hands in the stomach of the highest and dustiest filing cabinet, obviously no longer looking with the entirety of his attention but still trying to keep up the charade.

“Was there a point you wanted to make, or…?”

Jon pulls his hands out and swings his face around, and Tim can’t read his expression.

“At the… At the Institute party. You seemed… close.”

No closer than usual, Tim had thought. Martin’s efforts hadn’t been enough to completely vanish his anxieties over the socialisation. He’d stuck close to the other three all night, tugging at his new jacket at intervals, running his fingers over the fabric to settle himself. He’d avoided the alcohol entirely, and had picked at the snack foods. Tim had been as free with his affections with Sasha as usual, casual touches to her hip, the small of her back, calling her ‘babe’ and ‘love’. Sasha had pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek and dragged him over by the hand to their merry band when he’d arrived later than the rest of them. Tim and Martin hadn’t touched because Martin had confessed earlier that he’d prefer if they didn’t, not in this setting, not where other people could see or comment or judge, and so Tim respected that and kept his distance. Apart from once, when they were sat off to the side on plastic-backed chairs pulled out of some store cupboard somewhere, unnoticed by anyone else. Sasha had been drawn into conversation with Rosie about something political, and Jon had been extricating himself from talking to Elias after being summoned over to meet a few of their investors, and Martin had nudged Tim’s hand with the back of his own and murmured ‘Thanks. For, um, convincing me to come’ and then he’d glanced around before leaning in and kissing him demurely before moving back, his cheeks clawed with pink. Tim had felt a bit like a firecracker going off.

“You’re a bit late for any juicy office gossip,” Tim replies slowly, uncertain of where this conversation is going. “I mean, it’s not a new development.”

Perhaps Jon had seen him and Martin, although it wasn’t a crime, what they did, wasn’t inappropriate for work. He’d assumed Sasha would have told him, on the nights when Jon stayed at hers. Martin doesn’t tell anyone about them, but Martin doesn’t tell anyone about a lot of things, and they’ve spoken about his insecurities and fears both unfounded and painfully historical. Tim doesn’t mind Martin’s reticence, doesn’t mind the slow-building thing between them. Martin pretends not to smile at his jokes and beats him at Mario Kart every time and oversalts his chips and undercooks his eggs and finishes Tim’s onion bhajis when he’s ordered too much and scolds him for forgetting about the bins again and has started to kiss him for the first time like this isn’t something he’s going to lose. Martin hasn’t said he loves him, and that’s alright. Tim’s pretty sure he’s been gone for Martin for months now.

“Does he know?”

Jon’s follow-up is flint-strike, whiplash-corded. He’s set his jaw and his mouth in a tight line that looks like a wound in the unsettled torchlight.

“What do you mean?” Tim asks nonplussed, and if anything, Jon winches his body tighter and says, almost impatiently.

“Does Martin know about Sasha?”

“What about her?”

“About you and Sasha?”

“I mean… yes?”

“And does Sasha know about you and Martin?”

“Have you talked to her about this?”

“Well, no. I wanted to ask you first.”

Comprehension rocks him tidal with a sudden drenching wave.

“ _Christ,_ Jon!” Tim hisses out, and Jon gestures him to be quieter and it’s only with real effort that he manages: “Of course she _knows_. They both know about each other – I’m not a complete bastard!”

“I didn’t say that!” Jon counters defensive. A coil of embarrassment has begun to wind its way through his tone.

“Is that what you think? That I’ve, what, started seeing Martin on the side and just… what, haven’t told Sasha about it? That you’ve uncovered some sort of sordid little office scandal? The _fuck,_ Jon!”

“Keep your voice down!”

“You’re the one who wanted to have this conversation _right now,_ ” Tim snaps back.

“I – ” Jon huffs, irritated with himself. The torchlight makes his expression stretch, take on more weight. “That wasn’t what I meant, and I didn’t intend it to come across that way.”

“What way did you intend it to come across then?”

“It – it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it sounded a lot like you were a second away from accusing me of cheating on either one or both of them, so no, actually, I _do_ want you to give me an explanation. Like, right now…. Is this some jealousy thing, with Sasha?”

“What? No! No, Sasha can, Sasha can date who she likes. It doesn’t bother me that you two are together as well.”

“So, _what,_ Jon? What’s the problem?”

“I…” Jon makes an aggrieved noise. “I’m not explaining myself well.”

“You can say that again.”

Jon breathes hard. He fiddles with his fingers and Tim waits, making Jon be the one to speak first. Because for all Jon’s protesting that he didn’t mean it like that, Tim’s hurt, slighted by the idea that Jon might think that of him, might read callousness or deception into his actions so easily.

“I don’t think that of you,” Jon says eventually. “I know – you wouldn’t hurt Sasha and you wouldn’t hurt Martin. I didn’t think you were cheating. I just… I didn’t know that you and Martin… I thought that you and Sasha, not that you were exclusive, but that … and then I saw you with Martin and I wanted to make sure, because I don’t… so, I get that Sasha, she likes you and she likes me and that’s – I get that. But I don’t understand how you – what, you were with Sasha, and then you just… what, started dating Martin? How does that work? How are you with one person, and then you meet another and then you want to be with them as well?”

Tim does not have time to teach Jon Polyamory 101, considering they’re in the middle of something that, pretty euphemisms aside, is definitely a crime. If Jon was better at communicating, this was something he might have been able to broach with Sasha, or with Tim at literally any time other than right now.

Jon’s intensity is misplaced. He’s always been good at that, reflecting the inward out to something he feels he can tackle. Tim privately thinks that Jon’s had these little boxes in his head of what he understands poly to be, and that Martin’s involvement has jostled them out of alignment. That Jon might not be as monogamous as he’s previously considered himself to be and is having to work through all the baggage which comes with personal growth.

Tim’s seen the way Jon looks at Martin when he thinks no-one is looking.

“Jon,” he says, and he does well to strip the irritation from his voice. “Me and Sasha, we talked about it, early on when we first started seeing each other. About the whole exclusive thing. And like _adults,_ we came to the agreement that we were happy for the other person to be in a different relationship if they felt drawn to be so, as long as all parties were informed and consented to the arrangements. And then, this thing with Martin came along… and I told Sasha about it, and she suggested I try seeing if he’d be interested. And luckily, you know, he was, and the three of us have talked about the logistics of it all, and it’s working out. I’m not sure what you’re finding difficult to understand.”

“So… Sasha and Martin are together too?”

“Nah. They’re, um – how did they put it… ‘incompatible in a few key areas’. But they love each other in their own way, and they’re happy, and that’s all there is to it.”

Jon ruminates on this for a bit before he seems to mentally prepare himself for another question.

“And how did you feel, when Sasha started seeing me?”

“Er. Fine. Questioned her taste in men a bit, but…” Jon’s face is a picture at that moment. “I’m joking! I was fine about it. Is… is that was this is about?”

“It’s… not _exactly…_ ” Jon looks at the dust on his shoes, rubs at a grubby spot on his face that he’d missed with his sleeve. “When she told you that she wanted to see me, it didn’t… it didn’t make you feel, I don’t know, hurt? That you weren’t enough for her?”

Tim loves Jon dearly but god, he can be an idiot.

“It doesn’t work like - Look. You’re not – it’s not about one person being ‘enough’, yeah? It’s not a finite resource, kay, people can love their friends and pets and family and partners and it’s not… it’s not going to run out or anything daft like that. When Sasha started seeing you, and going to pub quizzes with you, or when she’d be at mine one night and then she’d leave in the morning to go on one of your museum jaunts or whatever…. You being there didn’t reduce how she felt about me, or make our relationship any less meaningful. And when you’re with Sasha, you don’t feel she cares about you less because I’m in the picture, right?”

“No.”

“Exactly. She loves you differently, not less. And the same when me and Martin got together.”

“I… I understand,” Jon says slowly.

“Then, what about this is bothering you exactly?” Tim says, and his voice has quietened now.

“Sasha wouldn’t feel… hurt. If I wanted to, um, hypothetically see someone else. She wouldn’t think that I – I wasn’t happy, or that I wanted more than what we had together, or that she wasn’t… enough for me. And if I did see someone else, they wouldn’t feel like I was, I dunno, messing them around?”

“Jon,” Tim says. “I think this is a conversation you should really be having with our girlfriend, yeah? But… personally, I wouldn’t worry. Wanting to date another person isn’t bad. You just need to be honest and _communicate._ ”

There is a long pause.

“Thanks, Tim.” Jon looks tired, mulling over things, but his face is plastered over with something like relief compared to his earlier tension. “I do – er. I do appreciate you. Talking to me about… about all this.”

“Don’t get soft on me, boss,” Tim says, and he gives Jon a wink. A deliberate gesture that says that it's alright. “I know I’m a delight to be around.”

Jon relaxes and his expression flint-sparks into a small smirk.

“Whatever Sasha and Martin have been telling you, you’re absolutely not that charming.”

“Please. I’m a catch. Irresistible.”

“I seem to be immune.”

“You sure about that?” Tim teases and Jon rolls his eyes and gives him a put-on look-over.

“You aren’t my type.”

“It’d be different then, if I was, say, a winsome-looking redhead?” Tim says. “If I looked like I’d fallen backwards into a tragically retro clothes shop. Would that, perhaps, be a little bit more your type, boss?”

It’s too dark to see if Jon’s complexion has flared with embarrassment.

“Where are you going with this, Tim?”

“Nowhere!” Tim sing-songs and turns his attention back to the desk. One of the drawers is stuck and he yanks at it before it opens with a complaining screech. “Nowhere at all.”

Jon doesn’t respond. For a few moments, they sink back into their search.

“He’s seemed happier recently,” Jon says after five minutes or so. “You’re good for him.”

“You could be too."

“Well. Ahem.” Jon has definitely gone a different colour at that thought.

And then his face hardens. He clicks off the torch sharply, and he's yanking Tim forwards by the arm, tugged him next to him into the cramped space next to one of the filing cabinets. Tim would have yelped, but Jon gives a sharp 'shhh', and grabs at Tim's torch to press it off as he pulls them both down crouching. For a moment, there's nothing but breathing, Tim trying to ask Jon what's wrong with his limited movement and Jon equally communicating that he needs to shut up immediately. 

Then Tim hears the noises outside.

He thought they'd have more time. The doors to the office and the main building aren't locked, and they won't be able to get out now, not without facing whatever is out there that the statement giver warned them about. 

"What'll we do, boss?" he whispers to Jon, the words threaded onto one breath. 

"Plan B?" Jon suggests. He passes his torch to Tim, and goes for the inside of his bag again, bringing out the items Tim had argued repeatedly for bringing and Jon had repeatedly shot down. 

Tim grins despite himself.

"Plan B," he affirms, and helps Jon light the firework. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> * mention of cheating in the context of poly relationships - Tim believes that Jon thinks he's cheating on Sasha and Martin. This isn't framed as Jon thinks being poly is cheating, or is somehow less committed than mono relationships. 
> 
> * internalised polyphobia - Jon is absolutely fine with the concept of polyamory in theory, and is accepting of it when other people are engaged in meaningful relationships with more than one person. Acknowledging that 'he' is poly and wants to engage in more than one relationship is not something he is dealing with in a mature and communicative manner. The revelation that there are more people involved in their network, as well as the implication that Martin is presumably open to the concept of polyamory as well, is something he poorly tries to talk to Tim about.


	6. jon and martin

Jon has changed his shirt four times now. Sasha’s bedroom is a lesson in disaster zones, a dumping ground of clothes and accessories and sprays and creams. Early on, she tried to avoid the proceedings as long as possible to give the man a bit of space, and so lurked in the living room, reading a magazine and ignoring the stomping, and cursing, and muttering and clattering from the bathroom and bedroom.

Now, an hour in, she’s been fully drafted into emotional and sartorial support, a rational battalion of one as Jon cycles intermittently and indecisively between outfits. Ten minutes to go before the taxi arrives, and he’s standing there shirtless, his arms folded and glaring in recrimination at the shirts rumpling on the bed.

“I liked the white one,” Sasha broaches cautiously.

Jon twists at his rings.

“It doesn’t go with the trousers,” he says.

Jon’s trousers are the one thing he has, finally, been able to narrow down, a punk-red choice that was half an hour in the making. Jon’s tried on the white shirt, red trousers combo twice now, and it definitely matches, and Sasha has definitely told him this already.

“Everything goes with white, Jon. Look, it’s good look! With the blue bowtie, it’s _nice_. _”_

“I look like I’m dressed up as the Union Jack,” Jon’s discontent has cycled back to snarking under his breath. “Or the Dutch flag. Or the French.”

Jon picks up another shirt, a fetching pale-yellow check pattern, before he puts it down in a huff.

Sasha’s phone dings.

 _05.35 Tim <3:_  
How’s it going?

 _05.35 Sasha:_  
We’ve narrowed it down to four shirts, so improvement!

How’s Martin?

 _05.36 Tim <3:_  
Pacing.

He keeps brushing his teeth.

He looks nauseous.

 _05.36 Sasha:_  
Should I change the booking?

 _05.36 Tim <3:_  
Nah. They’ll pull themselves together.

“Jon,” Sasha says in the kindest possible way. “The taxi’s in ten. Choose one. Choose the white one. Martin would think you’d look good in a bin bag, come on.”

The reminder of the time clearly works its magic, and Jon hurriedly puts on the white shirt. Sasha helps him with the bowtie when it’s clear he’s going to be all butterfingers until he gets to the venue. He spritzes on some aftershave while she hunts him down some socks.

“There you are.” She smooths down some of the wrinkles. “Very handsome.”

“Should I wear cufflinks?”

“Best not, you’ll fiddle with them all night.”

“Hm. When’s the taxi?”

“Five minutes. You should get your shoes on.”

Jon has one shoe on and is hunting around for the second when he suddenly looks to Sasha.

“Should I have gotten him flowers?” A panicked look has gripped him. “People like flowers, don’t they, on a first date. Martin is _definitely_ the sort of person who likes flowers, maybe I should – ”

“ _Jon,_ ” Sasha interrupts his spiral. She comes in close and puts her hands on his hips. “Sweetheart, you’ve got this.” Her phone digs to signal the taxi’s arrived, and she smiles at Jon reassuringly. Jon’s smile is slightly more on-edge but he’s clearly trying. “Now, off with you and get yourself a nice fella.”

She kisses him for luck before shepherding him out of the house on the dot of quarter to.

Not ten minutes later, Tim’s invited himself over, spirits and mixers in a plastic bag, and they toast to their loved ones while crossing their fingers.  
  


* * *

  
Jon insists on walking Martin back to his flat after their meal. Martin’s brolly is wide-limbed, a wind-battered shelter, and with Jon’s slightness and Martin’s height, both of them manage to crouch under its hold and remain mostly dry. Martin’s shoes are new, still sheened with their factory polish, and he hasn’t worn them in yet, so he’s clearly feeling the rub of them at his heel with the way he’s walking. Jon is regretting his choice of shirt, because while Martin complimented him and it made a pleased smile stutter onto his face, the fabric is thin, and the chill has started to freckle his body.

He stands a little closer to Martin as they walk. He thinks Martin notices. Hopes he does.

Jon won’t remember what they spoke of when Sasha asks him tomorrow. He’ll remember the flow and bubble of conversation, the easiness of it. He’ll remember that Martin talks with his hands, and more than once he forgets he’s gripping the umbrella and they get sprinkled with a liberal wash of rainwater. He’ll remember that he could make Martin smile just by doing poor impressions of people they both knew, and so he’d done it more than once just because he could.

On the step, neither of them know how to tie up their conversation, and Jon is realising that he doesn’t want the night to stop. That he wants tonight and tomorrow and the day after, that whatever way his life tends he wants Martin in it.

“I – er, guess this is good night then?” Martin says. His expression has taken up its old post of anxiety, and he’s looking everywhere but Jon’s eyes, his hands and body held respectfully back even under the umbrella.

Jon bridges the gap. Raising himself onto his tiptoes to angle himself better, pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek.

“Good night, Martin,” Jon says, and his voice is smooth while the rest of him is not. Martin has gone the colour of sunrise and is looking wowed. “Or, um, I could come up? If you, er, if you wanted to keep talking, over tea or something?”

“I – um, is that – that’s a metaphor, right?” Martin asks. “I’d, don’t get me wrong, I’d like to keep – I’m having a great time, and um. The thing is Jon, if you came up, and I’d – I’d like that, but it would really be _just,_ just tea. I, um, I don’t? Not really. I was going to tell you if tonight went well, which it did – I-I mean at least I _think_ it has – ”

“It’s not a metaphor,” Jon interrupts. He wants to take Martin’s hand, but one is still holding the umbrella and the other is wrapped around his flat keys. “It’s seems a good a time as any to tell you I don’t either.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.”

Martin’s shy smile has crept back onto his face.

“Right. Right. So, would you like to come up?”

“Lead the way,” Jon says, and he follows Martin inside.


End file.
